Slowly, Helena was adjusting. Adjusting to loss was nothing new to her. In fact, it was something the Victorian woman was far too used to. Sometimes it really did seem as though she should stop trying to be happy because it was always somehow taken away from her in a bad way. Helena really could only handle so much loss before she wasn't going to bother putting her heart back together. This place had given her a chance to be with Myka, to finally act on the love she'd kept silent in her heart. Just when she'd let herself dream of a future, Myka had been taken from her. Hope and H.G. Wells never went well together, not any longer. She should have learned her lesson in hope when she'd failed to save Christina with her time machine.
Claudia's visits were more than welcome, Helena needed them more than she would ever actually say. The companionship did help keep her from falling within herself, from keeping herself from closing off emotionally. The only thing that it didn't do was give her reason to put the effort into putting her heart back together. That would be a topic she would need to approach slowly, and once she was further removed from having Myka taken from her. So for now, she simply vented her grief, anger and pain in inventions and writing. Several inventions hadn't survived, having been destroyed in fits of frustration. Helena's writing also had suffered some of the same treatment. She would run with an idea, but when she grew disenchanted with it, or frustrated with it, she would tear the pages from her notebook, crumple them up and cast them aside.
Grappler was draped on the back of the couch, lazily watching Helena fluff the throw pillows. The cat's tail flicked back and forth, clearly knowing company of some sort would be arriving given the fuss Helena was making.